Full of Wisdom and Perfect in Beauty by Gadira

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The Fate of Númenor

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Gimilzagar was barely aware that there were hands holding his arm, wrapping it tight in some kind of bandage, and pressing against it in a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood from the open wound. In a haze, he saw Lord Zigûr come into the room, heard the echo of his excuses and apologies, and his assurances that he would uncover every detail of this evil plot. The only thing which had the ability to wake him briefly from his state of stupor was the High’s Priest’s solicitous offer to heal him. Upon hearing it, Gimilzagar flinched back in disgust, clutching protectively at his bandaged arm, and Ar Pharazôn shrugged and said nothing to contest his will. The Prince had never seen his father relinquish his overbearing attitude so easily before. His thoughts felt oddly scattered against Gimilzagar’s, as if his whole world had turned upside down all of a sudden, and he was having trouble landing on his feet after the powerful impact. In appearance, he had regained his usual aplomb very soon, even subdued the attacker with his own hands, but as he dealt with the aftermath, the seams under this confident attitude were beginning to show, like ripples under the water’s calm surface.

When Gimilzagar left the room, accompanied by the two priests who had bandaged his arm and now tentatively supported his shaky steps, nobody held him back. He was taken to a place where there was a bed, small but comfortable, and they helped him lay on it in silence. As he snuggled under the covers and gazed at the ceiling above him, he could feel his head starting to spin in circles. Far in the distance, he heard the sound of people wailing and screaming, but it was not coming from the Temple, where the mightiest of the realm must already have heard about the assassination attempt. No- he knew it was coming from his mind, and that the moment he dared to close his eyes he would see them: the men, the

women and children, stretching their hands towards him and screaming as they were torn apart, burned and drowned, their civilizations obliterated from the face of the world. Most of them would be barbarians, but the Númenóreans would be there too, and their eyes were the ones that Gimilzagar least wanted to meet.

Why? the voices screeched in his ear. His shivers must have been noticeable enough, for one of the priests laid a hand on his forehead to check his temperature. He is one, and guilty; we are many and innocent. Why did you choose him?

“I did not. I…” His voice came out as a hoarse, unrecognizable whisper beneath the covers. “I did not make… a choice. I was just… I was only….”

He had not been aware of what was going to happen for longer than an instant, and in that time he did not have the luxury to think. When the young acolyte had picked up the blade, his mind had revealed its full, murderous intent: the moment he stood behind Ar Pharazôn’s back, the King would die beneath the knife, like one of his own victims at the main altar. Gimilzagar did not even have the time to warn him, only to stand on his feet like a resort, rush towards them to abort the attempt with his own hands, and hope that Ar Pharazôn reacted fast before he could be killed himself. Everything he had done had been done on pure instinct. There had been no images of death, suffering and destruction in his mind, not even an awareness of the many times that this man had been cruel to him or threatened those whom Gimilzagar loved. All he had seen right at that moment was a murderer - and a victim.

Your eyes have seen a murderer and a victim a thousand times, and you have never moved a finger to prevent it, the voices whispered in his mind again. Suddenly, he thought he could catch a glimpse of them in the waking world, the wrathful spirits of the dead who had once almost dragged him to the darkness where Zigûr had trapped them. They were hovering over him, like rabid hounds lured by the scent of his blood.

“Leave me alone!” he begged, even knowing that they would not listen to any of his pleas. In some corner of his mind, he was aware that the priests were also busying themselves around him, worried by what they saw as his delirious utterings. “It was an instinct. A mindless instinct, nothing more!”

There is no such thing as a mindless instinct, the voices replied pitilessly. You are flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood, and as much as you may try to deny it, his nature lives on in you. When he was under threat, all the pretence deserted your mind like fog under the sun’s pitiless glare, and you knew that this bond was the sole thread upon which your miserable existence hinged.

“No.” Gimilzagar shook his head, covering his eyes with his hands. As he did so, however, the spirits only grew clearer, their gazes brighter and more terrible. “No.”

You are the tyrant’s son. And you can never, ever be anything else.

“No! Leave me alone!” The priests were working themselves into a panic by now. One of them had suggested that the blade could have been poisoned, and the second time Gimilzagar screamed he ran away from the room to report, leaving his companion in charge of the sickbed.

We will never leave you alone. We will force you to watch every man, woman and child in the throes of their agony, and we will not let you turn away from their pain. Because you are their murderer.

At some point of his anguished delirium, he could hear other people coming into the room and rushing to his bedside. One held a goblet full of warm liquid, which they gently tipped down Gimilzagar’s throat. Behind them, he heard women’s voices, living women’s voices, and he was able to recognize Ûriphel crooning in false sympathy a moment before everything went black.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

After Gimilzagar woke up, it took him a long time until he could gather his wits enough to remember where he was. When he did, the crushing weight of what had happened fell upon him, and his stomach turned. He struggled to a sitting position, frantically searching for a basin or some receptacle where he could throw up. Behind him, he could hear the sound of voices, which made him freeze for a moment. They were back. They had spoken true, they would never leave him a moment of peace again.

The man who emerged from the shadows, however, was made of flesh and blood, and easily recognizable as one of the temple priests. He seemed to have anticipated the Prince’s plight, because he was holding a basin in his hands. Gimilzagar took it, and vomited what looked like everything he had eaten in the last week.

“I am afraid this is one of the less pleasant consequences of the sedative we gave him, my lord King” he heard an apologetic voice above his retching. “A rare one, but not unheard of.”

So he was here. Wordlessly, Gimilzagar accepted the towel which was pressed into his hand, and wiped his mouth slowly and carefully with it, wishing he could just refuse to turn around until Ar Pharazôn was gone.

He would not be here anymore, if you had not saved him. You would not have needed to look at him ever again, forcing yourself to keep your composure from crumbling under his gaze, while you wonder who will be the next to die.

But the Pharazôn who was sitting by his bedside did not conform very well to those visions of terror. There were bags under his eyes, as if he had not slept in a long time, and the armour he had not taken off for so many hours was starting to weigh heavily upon him, tormenting his stiff joints. This vulnerability was already familiar to Gimilzagar, but the look in the King’s eyes gave him pause. Since he was old enough to remember, there had generally been a negative emotion there, whether it was disappointment, anger, mistrust, or mere contempt. Their rare absence had not been a reassuring circumstance, either, because whenever Ar Pharazôn decided to hide those feelings deeper down than he used to, Gimilzagar had learned to expect a strike. Now, the King of Númenor’s features were full of a warmth and pride which scared Gimilzagar more than anything else in the world.

“Your little nervous breakdown scared those priests out of their wits”, Pharazôn spoke, in a fond, indulgent voice. The Prince nodded, not knowing very well what to say. “It will reassure you to know that Zigûr managed to obtain all the information that we needed. The novice who attacked me was part of a plot hatched by the Baalim-worshippers to end my life before I could launch the expedition against their beloved Lords of the West. He entered the Temple with false letters which claimed he had been raised in the service of the god in the temple of Sor, and for months he posed as a pious young man, while he looked for the right opportunity to strike. Yesterday, he almost had it within his grasp, but you foiled him.”

Foiled by the abomination. For all those years, Gimilzagar had never admitted to himself that he could be seeking the approval of the fanatics who had already tried to murder him in the past. That would be as absurd as it was pathetic, given who he was and how they felt about him. Still, at some point, the love of Fíriel, the men and women he rescued in Andúnië at her prompting, and, above all, the grudging acceptance he had managed to wrestle from them at the end of their long journey across the Island must have clouded his rationality, and he had unconsciously started to believe that he could be something else than their sworn enemy. Now, after this rude wake-up call, he was back to seeing things with clarity. If he ever fell into their hands, he could expect no mercy.

“He confessed all this himself?” he asked, to cover up his turmoil. “And… did you hear him, or was it just Zigûr who did?”

Gimilzagar was expecting the King to roll his eyes, and declare that hatred for Zigûr was clouding his mind. But again, he was wrong. Ar Pharazôn looked deadly serious when he gazed back at him, but his anger was not directed towards Gimilzagar.

“Zigûr will not risk my displeasure again anytime soon. He knew that you had touched the man’s mind before he did, so he had to be very careful about what he said.”

The Prince’s eyes widened. He had not had the time to see what was in the man’s thoughts, for they had been overshadowed by an unfathomable depth of hatred, and the will of murder. And yet, what the King was suggesting was that his word, Gimilzagar’s word, would be of more value to him than Zigûr’s word.

“Why do you look so surprised? That accursed demon may be useful, but he also has his limitations. That he failed to perceive this threat, and allowed that wretch to hide under his very nose, shows this better than anything else. Then again, neither did your proud mother, who claims to know everything. They were both blind, either by incompetence or because they actually thought they could get rid of me, which would only be another form of incompetence.” At some point, Ar Pharazôn had risen from his seat and started pacing around the room. “It does not matter. A King does not trust people; he only employs their skills for his higher ends, as far as they remain useful.”

His voice was apparently calm, but his agitation seemed to be mounting as he spoke. Beneath it, Gimilzagar saw the vulnerability again, the one which had already revealed itself earlier. Could this incident have unhinged Ar Pharazôn?

“But I have to confess something, Gimilzagar. For all this time, I have been wrong to dismiss the importance of blood. When a man is on his own in a nest of vipers, what can he trust, if not blood?” He stopped on his tracks, and gazed at him solemnly. “I am aware that we have often treated each other like enemies. But at the moment of truth, only my own blood would have responded the way you did. Only my son would have saved my life at the risk of his.”

You are the tyrant’s son. And you can never, ever be anything else.

“I am sure there are many loyal Númenóreans who would have done what I did”, Gimilzagar protested, uncomfortably. “I was simply –there at the right time.”

Ar Pharazôn frowned.

“Do not give me vain platitudes! It has taken me many years, but I have finally been able to read your mind, just as you claim to be able to read that of others. While you were lying on that floor, nursing your wound and staring at me in disbelief, I could see through you. And I realized that, despite all the people who have tried to poison your mind, despite my own unfair treatment of you, deep in your heart, you have always been loyal to me.” He paused for a moment, as if he needed to gather something other than breath to utter the next words. “Please forgive me for doubting it, my son.”

Gimilzagar wanted to protest again, to say that he did not deserve, did not want an apology. That the King had blown the incident, and Gimilzagar’s role in it, out of proportion. It had been too long since his life had been under any sort of threat, and Zigûr had lulled him into a false sense of security where he almost saw himself as a god already, untouchable by mortals. The rude wakeup call had briefly undone him, which was why, not used to this inconvenient weakness, he was desperately searching for something to hold on to. But if Gimilzagar had not jumped in, someone else would have done so –one of the other priests, or perhaps Ar Pharazôn himself would have reacted in time, and mastered his foe on his own.

Except Gimilzagar knew that this was not true. It had only been a brief, vivid flash in his mind, but he had seen his father lying in a pool of blood at his feet. His intervention alone had changed this fate, altering the fate of the rest of the world in the process.

He could forgive his father now, accept his outstretched hand and dwell under the pleasant shade of his favour while it lasted. But no one would ever forgive him.

Ar Pharazôn’s hand had always been warmer than his own, but this time its palm felt positively smouldering under his. Still, its grip was a little less firm than it used to be, and when the King pulled him into an embrace, Gimilzagar could feel a raw need such as he had never before detected in such a proud man, rising from his spirit like a tall wave.

“Well”, Ar Pharazôn chuckled, pulling away from him moments later. “Now that this incident is already behind us, what do you say if we both return to the Palace? I have much to do, and you need to eat and rest and see to your injury. For immortality will do you no good if you do not live long enough to attain it, will it?”

Gimilzagar’s legs gave way under him, and he sat on the bed, gazing in shock as his father signalled the priests to approach and abandoned the room.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The boy’s forehead was curved in a frown of deep concentration, as he gazed at his opponent from behind his sword. At first, he had looked a little nervous to Ilmarë’s eye, but when she saw that he remained still, refusing to rush his move despite the fact that the man was drawing closer and closer to him, she had to admit that his presence of mind might be greater than she gave him credit for. Either that, or he was petrified by fear, she thought- though knowing him, this option was rather unlikely. Elendur had confidence, perhaps too much of it.

“Be careful!” Irissë shrieked when Tal Elmar’s sword swished too close to his ear. Elendur moved to the side with agility, then drew a graceful arch with his sword, until it collided with that of his opponent with a loud clang. He had put all his weight behind it, and his low growl and the pale colour of his hands told Ilmarë that he was trying to overbear Tal Elmar with his strength. The barbarian frowned in disapproval.

“What are you doing?” he scolded. “I taught you to use the weapons at your disposal! Your strength is not…” His words died on his throat, and he bit back a curse as Elendur suddenly jumped to the side and pulled back. In the last moment, Tal Elmar managed not to fall forwards –which would have been quite an embarrassing way to be defeated by a ten-year-old before the lord of Andúnië-, but the time he needed to regain his balance was enough for the boy to stand back, and adopt a flawless stance.

“Oh, that was very good!” Irissë applauded. Irimë scolded her for distracting the fighters, while Lord Amandil merely nodded in silence.

Ilmarë had to admit that she was starting to feel impressed. Elendur was a very undisciplined child, and yet she was unable to find any traces of this while he was engaging in swordsmanship. For all that Isildur complained because Tal Elmar didn’t fight like a proper Númenórean, even his shortcomings in that department seemed to have turned out to his advantage when he began teaching Elendur. The boy did not only know his moves, he also had a penchant for trickery and creativity which might prove very useful once he was older.

“That is it! That is the way to do it!” Irissë cried, delighted, when her darling son managed to score a point. It had been his only point of five, as he was still no match for Tal Elmar, but to his loving mother, it was just as if he had won a tournament. “I am so proud of my little boy!”

Elendur retreated, his look one of embarrassed outrage, but Tal Elmar frowned at him until he reluctantly agreed to submit to Irissë’s transports. Since the day that Ilmarë had that conversation with him, the barbarian had kept her words at heart – perhaps a little too much, if Elendur’s current frustration was any indication. As a reward for his efforts, Irissë herself had named him her son’s instructor, despite Ilmarë’s strong suspicion that she must have some idea of why her husband disappeared with him so often while he was in Rómenna. Then again, since Fíriel had decided to stay in the Palace and doom herself to a life of loneliness and humiliation, Ilmarë no longer felt qualified to judge anyone else for their choices. Perhaps Irissë was not so stupid as she appeared at first sight– after all, she enjoyed an honourable status as Isildur’s wife and the mother of her child, and, as far as everyone else was concerned, she was not even forced to share her house with a mistress. The young man was unfailingly polite and humble in her presence, and had provided Elendur with the male guidance that his often absent father could not give him. Perhaps love was not everything in this world, and the surest path to unhappiness lay in pretending that it was.

“You should not praise him so much. It will make him too proud, and then he will think that he is entitled not to pay attention to his studies as long as he excels in this. Boys love mindless sword-waving too much for their parents to give them the impression that it is the only thing that matters.”

“Studies!” Irissë scoffed at his sister. To her, nothing that her son did not do well could ever be important, Ilmarë thought wryly. “What is studying going to avail him when he is in the mainland facing wild barbarians? Our family needs strong men to protect our colonies and keep us safe.” The emphasis on the word ‘men’ made the daughter of Elendil send a meaningful glance in her mother’s direction, but Eluzîni was faster.

“A well-balanced education is a requisite for anyone called to fulfil great responsibilities”, she said, sententiously. Then, she leaned forwards to ruffle Elendur’s hair. “But this young man is clever enough to take on that challenge and many more, now isn’t he?”

“That he is!” Irissë nodded fondly. Findis snorted.

“Well, he thinks that the Middle Havens are South of Umbar! The day he goes to the mainland, he is not even going to find his enemies!”

The boy’s face reddened.

“Nobody asked for your opinion!”

“There, there”, Eluzîni hurried to interject -which was fortunate, for her voice covered a remark from Irissë that sounded suspiciously like ‘she takes after her mother then’. She looked at Elendil, silently asking for help, but to both her and Ilmarë’s surprise, he was not even paying attention to the bickering. His eyes were fixed on his father, who was gazing at what seemed to be the tiles on the floor with a strange frown. At first, Ilmarë believed the lord of Andúnië to be merely displeased by the behaviour of his family. Then, she realized that something was off.

“Is something the matter, Grandfather?” Though the rational part of her knew that the world did not revolve around Fíriel, it was an ingrained habit to think of her whenever something was amiss.

Amandil looked up at the sound of her voice. He had the expression of someone who had just emerged from a trance, or from a vision, she thought, more and more worried. The squabbling ceased as everybody’s attention became fixed on him, until even the children fell silent.

“Trouble” he said, in an eerie tone which seemed to belong to a different person, though Ilmarë could see his lips moving to form the words. “Trouble is coming. And we must be ready for it. All of us.”

Ilmarë swallowed.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

Pharazôn gazed through the window, though it was long since his eyes had ceased taking in anything they saw. All he could manage to focus on was his hand, which had again started to tremble almost imperceptibly against the railing. He had never seen his hands shake before: they had always remained steady, even in the middle of the bloodiest battlefield. Even when he faced the wraith from Mordor, who instilled fear in his enemies through black sorcery.

Why was this happening to him now? Sometimes, he wondered if he understood himself well enough to tell anymore. He could not be afraid of that wretch who tried to sink a sacrificial blade in him, a man he had disarmed in one move and who had been defenceless when Zigûr ripped his mind to shreds to tear away the information about his motives and his accomplices. And it would be even more absurd to fear those around him, the demon with the ability to enter minds who claimed not to have found it necessary to bother with the thoughts of a lowly acolyte, or the woman who saw everything that was and would be, yet sat in her throne, smiling throughout the incident. As he had said to Gimilzagar the other day, if they did not want him dead, they had proved incompetent, but if they did, they had proved even more so.

Whichever of the two it had been, the truth was that Pharazôn had been about to die a sordid, inglorious death at the hands of a nobody. He had almost lost his life before he was finally ready to fulfil the destiny he had grown to see as his: to either die fighting the gods, or become one of them. He thought he had been thinking strategically when he decided not to rush things, to take care of every last detail, so as to not let all his hopes for victory and the glory of Númenor hinge on a faulty dice throw. But, what if he had just been thinking like a coward all this time? Perhaps he had tried to delay his fate for so long that his indecision had fed the determination of his enemies. And in the end, one of them had almost wrestled this fate away from his hands, consigning him to an afterlife of darkness and oblivion.

Now, Pharazôn was alive, while the man was dead. He had seen him die, too lost in his own madness to even feel the pain, and yet the King of Númenor still felt the same shivers crossing his spine whenever he remembered how close it had been. If it had not been for Gimilzagar, the attempt would have succeeded.

The Prince of the West’s actions had been providential. He had perceived the budding thought in the man’s mind before he could strike, thanks to that rare gift he had been born with. Immediately, he had jumped into the fray, proving that he was his father’s son, despite the long years of denial. Pharazôn had been wrong to suspect him in the past, and now that he had realized his mistake, he would be a fool if he let insignificant issues like Gimilzagar’s sensitiveness, his quirks, his defiance or his choice of women come between them again. Why had he ever let things like this matter? It seemed almost too childish on hindsight, to be up in arms because his son did not want to be like him. For a long time, he had let his pride obscure the knowledge that loyalty was the only thing that was truly important, and a loyalty that could not be erased by years of bitterness and enmity was the most important of all. In the past, Pharazôn had gone as far as to threaten Gimilzagar with a bleak future where he would have to kill people with his own hands to remain alive, because he would no longer be needed as an heir. Now, it was only fitting that, as a peace offer, he promised his son freedom from this sinister dependence which had tormented him since he was a child.

And he would fulfil his promise. From this day on, he would stop contemporizing and giving his flank to his attackers, trying to coexist with his enemies and manage his conquests in fear of an uprising. He would pull his forces from the mainland and into the Island, and gather them for a single strike where he would lay all his hopes and chances. And he would never look back, doubt his fate, or regret his choices. Because now, he knew that if he was not ready to act as a god, he would die as a man.

“My lord king, he is here”, the voice of the Chamberlain interrupted his feverish thoughts. Pharazôn was glad that he was giving the man his back, because this way he could not see his unseemly start at being caught by surprise. He cursed between his teeth, how could he have lowered his guard again so soon? “He is waiting in the adjoining room, as you ordered.”

“Good”, he said, taking a sharp breath before he turned away from the window and followed him.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

It had been many years now since the last time Ar Pharazôn saw the man who had once been his best friend, and he could not help but feel shocked at his appearance. Amandil looked old, almost too old. There were grey patches in his hair, wrinkles on his forehead, and he seemed bent by an invisible weight which slowed his movements, even as he knelt before him and bowed low. They said that the house of Andúnië aged slower, so this sight provided the King with an unpleasant reminder of how he might look himself, if not for Zigûr’s magic.

Would his corpse have been that of a disgusting old man, once the magic was severed by his death? Ar Pharazôn shook his head, forcing himself to discard those morbid thoughts and focus on the conversation at hand.

“Well, well. I am greatly honoured by the visit of the powerful lord of Andúnië, the representative of the Lords of the West in the world of mortals” he greeted him, his tone dripping with irony. “I am eager to receive the gift of his wisdom.”

As he had expected, the wretch did not flinch, and his expression was not altered in the slightest. Age and adversity seemed to have done nothing to curb his pride.

“I was shocked when I heard about the assassination attempt, my lord King. I am glad that you survived it.”

He looked so solemn as he spoke his words, that an ignorant listener might even have been convinced of their sincerity. Pharazôn scoffed.

“No, you are not. And in case you are witless enough to be glad, I will remind you in a moment of why you should not be. The would-be murderer was one of yours, a Baalim-worshipper who was doing the work of your gods.”

Amandil took a deep breath.

“My gods, as you call them, would not have sent this man to do their work. And neither would I.”

“Well, then he was obviously taking his orders from someone else.” He had no time for stupid arguments about the nature or the morality of higher beings, and even less for Amandil’s excuses. “But this is not about whether you are innocent or guilty in this matter. If it had been, you would not have been brought before me, you would be dead.”

“Then what is it about, my lord King?”

For a moment, Pharazôn longed to hit him.

“Well, for starters, I would appreciate some information. Tell me who are those among your people who think like this man, who leads them, and where they live.”

Amandil shook his head, ruefully.

“I do not know.”

“That is not good enough. You were supposed to be their leader. Their representative. The one who kept them in check.”

“Then, I have obviously failed in my task, my lord King.” He bowed. “Guilty of the murder attempt or not, I accept every responsibility for what has happened.”

The King stared, unable to find a suitable retort in his outrage. He could not believe this. What was the old fool playing at? Did he think this was a game he could win?

“You are right. You are responsible for your inability to control your people, so I am sure that you will agree with what I must do next.” Amandil looked down, as if steeling himself for an inevitable blow, but when Pharazôn spoke again, he froze. “As of this moment, I am declaring my oath to you null and void.”

For the first time, there was a strong emotion to be detected in the lord of Andúnië’s countenance. He sought Pharazôn’s eyes, incredulous.

“That is - impossible. You may kill me if you wish, because that is your prerogative. But it is not a man’s prerogative to break an oath. Any man.”

“Oh, how I have missed you telling me what I can or cannot do”, the King snorted. “Not to mention your hypocrisy. You would even go as far as to defend an oath sworn by gods you do not believe in!”

“Believe in them or not, it was still an oath. And there are powers in this world who bear witness to oaths, regardless of whether the men involved called upon them or not.”

“I swore an oath to protect your people, Amandil!” Pharazôn stood up, and began pacing across the room again. “Now, you have just proved to me that they are no longer your people, so why should they be protected by that oath? Or are you able to vouch for all of them, for their thoughts, their words and deeds? Would you swear on that?”

“The men and women who worship the Valar are peaceful”, the lord of Andúnië replied hotly. “They are not assassins. This was one isolated case, my lord King.”

“Well, then tell me how many more isolated cases there are. Tell me!”

“As I said, I do not know. And even if I did, you would not be content with ten names, or a hundred, or a thousand. You would always believe there were more, and that I was lying to you”, Amandil hissed. “You are merely trying to impose a false dilemma upon me so you can blame me for breaking your oath. In all these years, you have done many things I did not believe you capable of, but even in your worst moments, you had never stooped so low.”

“How dare you?” Pharazôn was only distantly aware that his face had gone livid. “Who do you think you are, to speak to me like this?” He stood still, shaking, until he managed to swallow his rage and regain his dignity. He was the King of the World, in his way to becoming a god, he could not let an insignificant wretch provoke him. “It does not matter. You are right, my decision is already made. From this day henceforth, I will no longer protect the people of Rómenna, or suffer them to hold their own beliefs, practice their rites, or worship my enemies. They will pray and sacrifice to the Great Deliverer, like the rest of the Númenóreans, or be guilty of treason.”

“With all my respects, my lord King, it is unjust to doom many for the actions of one guilty person.”

“I am not interested in discussing or negotiating my measures with you. You ceased being a valid interlocutor the moment you were exiled.”

Now, Amandil looked at the verge of losing his composure as well.

“If I am not a valid interlocutor, then why did you summon me here?”

“I summoned you to tell you what I am going to do. To talk to you. That does not mean that you are allowed to talk back to me, and you are definitely not entitled to contest my decisions.”

“Then I will not talk back to you any longer, my lord King”, Amandil said, his gaze cold as ice. “To tell the truth, whenever I look at you now, I no longer see anyone to talk back to.”

“Good”, Pharazôn replied airily. “That should mean I have grown wise enough not to engage in pointless argument with my enemies. You may retire now. Oh, but before you do…”

Amandil froze in mid-bow, his eyes cautiously set on the floor.

“Yes?”

“I believe you will have many people to ferry across the Great Sea now. Do you have enough ships for all of them? And, what about your lands and resources in the barbarian North? Can you keep feeding and housing everyone when they arrive in droves, and protect them from the retaliation of the natives?” While he spoke, Ar Pharazôn had been watching the lord of Andúnië’s expression carefully, and he saw many emotions cross it in a short span of time. Confusion turned to realization, realization to horror, horror to alarm, and from there to a false indifference which came a little too late. “I must say, I am eager to find out.”

Amandil took a while to recover this time. His brow had creased in a frown, as if he was evaluating his options, but he did not speak a word.

 “Tomorrow, I will sign the decree, and in a few days it will be made public. So you should better hurry and have everybody who does not wish to worship the Númenórean gods leave the Island as fast as possible. The sooner this place is clean of vermin, the earlier I can set on my expedition, and the less deaths you will have to mourn.” Pharazôn smiled. “At least in Númenórean soil.”

True to his word, the lord of Andúnië did not talk back. Still, as he departed, there was a look on his face which the King, despite all the years of hostility and mistrust, had never seen there before. As he dissected it in his mind, it belatedly struck Pharazôn that the last link of the chain which had bound the two of them, since the day they met on those sunny temple gardens, had been severed at last.

And he felt nothing at all.

“Farewell, Hannimelkor” he muttered, turning away from the doorstep to retreat into his own quarters.

 

*     *     *     *     *     *

 

The feast had been extended for another full week, and the day declared holy in Númenor. Every year, the Island would commemorate how the Great Deliverer, through his servant Gimilzagar, had foiled the plots of the wicked and saved the King from assassination in his own temple. They would also commemorate the publication of the decree abolishing the exemptions that the cities of Rómenna and Pelargir had enjoyed in matters of religion. There was no peaceful coexistence to be had with those who worshipped the King’s enemies and followed their orders, for as long as they were allowed to live in the Island they would conspire and spy for their true masters, and hinder the King’s plans. Zigûr had been warning about this for a long time, but Pharazôn had not been swayed until his own eyes had seen the enemy blade stop inches away from severing the thread of his life.

To be accused of fallibility would be a fair price to pay, Zimraphel thought wryly, watching as the High Priest of Melkor finished his prayers before the altar. The flames illuminating his features contrasted sharply with the darkness of the dimly-lit room, giving him a sinister look which she found vaguely reminiscent of his true face.

“The Queen of Númenor ascribing evil and twisted motives to me. How surprising”, he chuckled, with the same tone a common man would use to banter with an old rival whom they secretly appreciated. Not for the first time, she wondered if Melian’s spirit was truly in her, buried somewhere beneath her mortal crust.

“To ascribe evil and twisted motives to an evil and twisted being is nothing farfetched”, she replied in kind. Zigûr smiled, taking his eye away from the altar flames as he slowly turned around to face her.

“Then what does this make you, my Queen? Surely it has not escaped your subtle mind that you have paid the same price as I. And paid it gladly, I daresay, to further your own interests.” He began descending the stairs. “A pity that your interests are as narrow and confining as those of every woman, mortal or immortal, who has grown a life in their womb, even if its nature is inferior to hers by far. But I wonder if the Prince will appreciate the favour you have rendered him, or mistrust you even more because of it.”

Zimraphel let her mouth curve in a bitter grimace, which was not entirely feigned.

“My relationship with my son is nothing of your business, Lord Zigûr.”

“That is true, my Queen. My apologies”. He lowered his head gracefully. “You, on the other hand, do not care about the Baalim-worshippers of Rómenna, and you did not come here to be offended on their behalf. Or perhaps I could be wrong in this?”

“No. It is a good thing that the Island will be rid of them at last.” Pathetic cowards, holding vainly to the debris of a sinking ship and calling it bravery, until they were sucked into the wreck’s deadly vortex, she thought in disgust. Common mortals excited nothing but contempt in her: they knew nothing, and blindly chased their primal impulses. They were like animals, who could only be prevented from taking the wrong path with fire and threats. And now, Pharazôn had turned into one of them.

Her contempt was strong enough to reach Zigûr’s mind, and he smiled delightedly.

“Interesting. You are a rare mortal indeed, my Queen, to blame the plight of your kind on their own shortcomings, instead of attributing it to higher instances who have nothing better to do in their eternal lives than making sure that you stay miserable.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Are you perchance deriding the same lies that you feed the King, the Princess and your faithful every day? Now, that would be an exercise of cynicism worthy of an immortal!”

“Well, cynicism is something that you can appreciate, my Queen.” Zigûr retorted. “I have seen you pretend that you love your husband, and I have seen you pretend that you do not, both with the same flawless expertise. I have seen you pretend that you are helping your son, while you push him further and further into a dark abyss. And I have seen you pretend that you care about the fate of Númenor, but there is barely a soul in this Island whose death you would mourn.” He smiled again. “Perhaps you are not so different from me. We both possess a wisdom unencumbered by the clouds of common sentimentality, and we influence those around us to take the paths that we deem necessary, speaking the language that each of them knows. We know who has to live and who has to die, but we never tell them, because they would not let themselves be led to the slaughterhouse quietly.”

It had been long since Zimraphel had felt the stirrings of a strong, human emotion. For a moment, even though the rational part of her knew that he was the one invoking this weakness from the depths of her heart, she was almost overwhelmed by a vain pride, gradually unfolding into disgust at her own soul, seen from the outside as if it was a twisted, misshapen object. Suddenly, she saw her father’s face in her mind’s eye, the old King, so spent and hopeless that she could not bear the sight. I did not kill him, she had told Pharazôn, yet another exercise of cynicism among many.

Zigûr watched her with attention, his face expressionless. Behind it, however, the red eye was gleaming in triumph.

“You are wrong. You and I are not the same, Lord Zigûr” she hissed. His smile almost turned into laughter, and his tone grew contemptuous.

“True. There is one difference between us: you are still mortal, and you have weaknesses. And if you ever defy me, or hinder me, I will drive a sword through them until I reach your heart.”

When Zimraphel reached her rooms in the Palace, her hands were still shaking slightly, but her heartbeat had stilled. And when she saw her own face stare back at her from the silver mirror, she let her lips curve in a tremulous smile.